


Strawberry Blond

by shaniacbergara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaniacbergara/pseuds/shaniacbergara
Summary: Look. It's been ages since I've written anything for these two. But like. Yknow. Strawberry Blond.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	Strawberry Blond

Crowley tipped the barista extra as he walked out of the coffee shop. He stopped a child’s ice cream from falling on the pavement as he sauntered down the street, hips swinging wildly, desperately attempting to hold onto any kind of semblance of togetherness. He even stopped to give a young tourist directions, though he did suggest a certain bookshop, just to be a little dastardly. He asked the young man at the cheese shop how he was, and wished him a good weekend as he left. 

He got to the shop, picnic basket in hand, and all in all, it took very little convincing to get Aziraphale to close up early and go for a drive with him. Aziraphale kept his wailing to a minimum in the Bentley, to his own credit. As recompense for his reckless driving, Crowley let him play classical music, with only a little of Freddie’s vocals bleeding through. 

Aziraphale loved to be in the country, especially when it didn’t come with a gardening position attached. He listened to Crowley ramble about the plants nearby, the trees and the grasses and the flowers. His oxfords and socks had been kicked off upon arrival, his slacks cuffed a few times, the better to feel the sun on his skin. Crowley, for his own part, was fairly well covered, and let that speak to the pink color on his cheeks as Aziraphale unbuttoned a button on his shirt.

Aziraphale declared, eventually, that he needed to stretch his legs, and stood, leaving an indentation in the lush grass where he had been reclining. Crowley tried not to imagine what it would feel like, the cool grass, molded by Aziraphale. He thought it might have been comfortable.

Crowley was left with his thoughts. They’d spoken about it, getting a little place out here. Just away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Crowley had had centuries of bustle, he liked hustling, liked the pace of the city. But, looking at Aziraphale, ruffled, standing amongst the dandelions, he could see the appeal.

They cracked the windows on the way back to the city. Aziraphale, as was his custom, let his arm dangle out of the window, feeling the breeze ruffle the delicate hairs that lay on his forearm. He turned to Crowley.

“I still love Her, you know.” Crowley turned to face him, and for once, Aziraphale didn’t protest. He could blow it off, he could make a joke. That would be what Aziraphale expected him to do, but he couldn’t. Not after what they’d been through. He just grinned at the angel, earnest and true.

“I think I do, too.” He turned back to the road, heart and bones aching, to avoid looking in Aziraphale’s eyes.

The road led them back to the bookshop. They'd get it together, one of these days. Knees and wills would bend, mouths would confess. But today, this evening, they'd drink their fill, and dream of spaces inhabited by the other.


End file.
